


under pressure

by sphesphe



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boston Bruins, M/M, a kneeling AU sans actual kneeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 04:44:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10846722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphesphe/pseuds/sphesphe
Summary: Patrice thought Marchy looked on edge earlier today at practice — jittery, over-full with something; he’d had an idea that he could help, somehow.Well, so. Yes. Apparently Marchy’s getting helped.





	under pressure

**Author's Note:**

> Blame this entirely on [this moment](https://68.media.tumblr.com/e4af24d476a608303bf576810214f086/tumblr_nqgb4bjN7t1rabfe9o1_500.gif) from Behind the B. It put ideas of a platonic kneeling thing between Boychuk and Marchy in my head. And then kneeling did not actually happen! shrug emoji. But this takes place in a universe where kneeling is a commonplace thing.
> 
> Thanks and much <3 to @waffles_007 for beta and for coming up with the title, you are the best!!

Patrice raps on the door once, twice, politely. He waits, and is about to knock again when the door opens.

Johnny’s the one who opens it, though, and Patrice nearly does an actual double take. “Oh— hey, sorry. I thought this was Marchy’s room,” he says, completely thrown.

“Oh yeah, no, it is,” Johnny says, slanting a crooked smile. He’s wearing an old t-shirt and sweats, barefoot. “He’s good, he’s just kinda conked out right now. Give him maybe forty minutes and then he’ll probably be good to hang out?”

Patrice can’t really see beyond Johnny blocking the doorway, and anyway, obviously, he shouldn’t pry into private business. “Oh. Sure. Okay.” Patrice blinks, realizes he’s still staring. “Right. See you later then?”

“Yeah. Later.” Johnny smiles, eyes crinkling, and then the door clicks quietly shut in Patrice’s face.

Patrice goes back to his own room and stands in the center of it, finding himself at a loss. It’s not that he hangs out with Marchy every day, or even all _that_ often. But generally whenever he reaches out, Marchy’s there to receive the pass, there to go over some new adjustment, there to shit-talk whatever’s on TV while Patrice laughs helplessly. He’s always there to _talk_ to.

Besides, Patrice thought Marchy looked on edge earlier today at practice — jittery, over-full with something; he’d had an idea that he could help, somehow.

Well, so. Yes. Apparently Marchy’s getting helped.

Patrice turns on the TV. He can’t immediately identify the show, but by some chance the scene features a woman kneeling, her head resting on another woman’s jean-clad thigh, her eyes closed. Peaceful. 

He changes the channel. CSI is on. He’s seen this episode before. He watches it anyway.

Somewhat more than two episodes later, a knock on the door arrives, with a certain tentative quality.

It’s Marchy, slouching loosely in the hallway. “Hey, sorry about before, I was...” He makes a vague, dismissive gesture with one hand. “But I’m good now. Don’t think I can sleep yet. Still up to hang out for a bit, big guy?”

Patrice catches himself inspecting Marchy, checking if he looks different. Marchy looks — fine. Normal. His hair is more or less neatly arranged. He’s wearing jeans, a sweatshirt. “Sure. I was just watching TV.”

“Don’t you watch enough TV on the plane with Piesy?” Marchy grins, following Patrice into the room.

“Well, you’d think so, but I like having something on. It’s just CSI.”

“How many times have you watched this episode? Ooh, this is a good one though.”

Patrice doesn’t watch the TV so much as slide inexorably over and over into observing Marchy, lying loose-limbed on the other side of the bed. He looks relaxed. He doesn’t fidget, even the little finger twitches that seem to always unconsciously emanate from him.

An image flashes through Patrice’s mind of exactly what Johnny does to put Marchy in this good of a mood.

Then he decides he can't think about that. It's none of his business.

Marchy clears his throat and says, “Hey, so, uh. About earlier, you know.”

Patrice finds himself tensing in anticipation of... what? “Yeah.”

“Look, it's not like. A big deal. It's a thing Boych helps me with, once in a while. I'm not a rookie, I don't _need_ it, obviously, but it's like. Nice, sometimes. Anyway it's not what you think, it's not, like, _sexual_ at all, you know. It's just a headspace thing. My brain gets pretty loud sometimes, so it’s practically like meditation. Sorta.”

“You don't have to justify anything to me,” Patrice says, uncomfortably. “It's your own business. Whatever you do, whatever you like, it’s fine.”

“Okay. Cool.”

“We all do what we have to do to make it through the season.”

“Yeah.” Marchy nods, keeps on nodding for a couple extended seconds. The TV fills in the silence.

After the episode ends, Marchy stretches and gets up, yawns showily. “‘M gonna go to bed, I think. Thanks for letting me chill here.”

“Of course. Any time.”

“Back at it tomorrow, eh?” Marchy, his eyes heavy-lidded with burgeoning sleep, smiles crookedly.

Patrice smiles back, putting as much sincere warmth in his face as he can. “See you in the morning.”

Marchy retreats, waving acknowledgement. The door snicks shut behind him.

For his part, it takes the larger part of another episode before Patrice can fall asleep. The drone of the voices and the predictability of the plot all helps.

It’s like meditation, he thinks. 

Sorta.

 

#

When Johnny gets traded, Patrice can’t escape the little current of shock that runs through him. It’s not like there wasn’t talk — the state of their salary cap space is an obvious sword hanging over everyone’s heads. But they hear too many rumors about every sort of potential trade, so that when one actually comes to fruition it always _feels_ unexpected.

The season kicks off in its usual rush of expectations and demands and adjustments. It’s always good to be back on the ice, but now Patrice has a particular reason to pay closer attention to Marchy.

It’s not like he’s noticeably changed his ways or anything. When Johnny was with the team, Marchy ran his mouth on the ice constantly, got in trouble with the refs, made opposing guys mad. He never had any trouble being the best pest he could be. He’s doing it now in approximately equal amounts.

So Patrice isn’t sure exactly why something about it feels different now. Maybe it’s an edge in Marchy’s voice, or the hard set of his face. He just seems — like the human equivalent of a clenched fist, looking for a fight.

“These guys are unbelievable today,” Marchy says, voice a little too loud from the bench, after the refs let a borderline cross check go uncalled. “Did they forget to fucking put their contacts in before the game or something. What?” he says irritably, when Krej wordlessly elbows him.

“Don’t let them hear you,” Patrice says.

“If they hear as well as they see, I can be about as loud as I want,” Marchy says pointedly, but he does subside slightly.

At least till he’s on the ice and jabbing verbally _and_ physically at Ryan Kesler. Sure, Kesler is who he is, and he was getting a little close to Tuukka in the last rush, but it seems like a disproportionate response. Patrice skates over to defuse the situation, just in time to hear Kesler say, “— need to _seriously_ get someone to put you down soon, because it’s fucking sad to watch you like this.”

“Like this? Like what? At least I’m not a fucking waste of space to my team. You’re so overpaid it’s not even funny, bud. Talk to me when you’ve been sent to the AHL at age 35.”

“Marchy,” Patrice cuts in. “Let it go, huh?”

Kesler looks at Patrice. “Look after your guy, Bergy, eh? It’s like a cry for help, listening to him.”

“Oh for fuck’s fucking sake,” Marchy says, but the refs are hovering and Patrice shoves Marchy away from Kesler, saying, “How about we play some actual hockey now,” gripping hard onto Marchy’s shoulder.

They get through the game, extract two points out of it even. In the dressing room, Marchy’s loud and twitchy, talking to everyone except Patrice. Z gives Patrice a meaningful look, so Patrice knows it's his assignment to talk to his guy.

He finds Marchy afterwards, on the way out of the arena, and draws him away to a side hallway. “Let’s talk,” Patrice says firmly.

“Okay. We’re talking,” Marchy says. “Go on. Talk.”

“Okay.” Patrice takes a breath, lets it out evenly. “Do you need someone to help calm you down?”

“No,” Marchy says, immediately. “I don’t _need_ anything, okay? Look, I’m sorry I got a little riled up today. I’m a passionate guy. It’s fine.”

“Boych—”

“I don’t need it. I promise.”

Patrice watches him fidget, his arms crossed across his chest. Cautiously Patrice tries, “Do you _want_ to, though?”

“What, you offering? I don’t want, like, a pity kneel from you,” Marchy says, a little too loud.

“It’s not pity,” Patrice says, taken aback. “Come on. I care about you— and I’ve got the A—”

“Come _on._ I’m fine. I’ll find someone. It’s fine.”

The idea that he’d rather find some anonymous _someone_ , though Patrice knows it’s in no way his right to feel pained by it, definitely stings. They stare at each other, locked in a stalemate.

“Fine,” Patrice says, at last. “But that today in the game? That was unacceptable. Claude will tell you the same.”

“Yeah. I got it.” His voice is flat, but sincere enough — Marchy’s always been serious about hockey, always acknowledged that he has to find the right line considering his style of play, and Patrice has to trust him to take this seriously too.

 

The next time Marchy seems to be getting close to tipping over the edge in a game, Patrice tries to head it off. “Hey. Watch it,” he says, on the bench, trying to sound more like a concerned friend than a disapproving dad.

Marchy glares at him, but doesn’t say anything sarcastic back like he clearly wants to. His knee jiggles in rapid fire up and down. Up and down. 

Patrice deliberately puts his hand on it, pressed firmly till the jiggling stops. It feels like a tiny bit of static jumping between them.

Marchy takes a breath as if to say something, but then he stops. He takes a couple deep breaths, presses his lips together and looks steadily at the ice.

But when their line goes back out, he goes right back to jawing and then pissing off the skeptical refs, till he ends up with more penalty minutes in the game than he _technically_ deserves. Patrice feels vaguely helpless, and Marchy still won’t meet his eyes.

 

Z even does end up coming to Patrice.

“I know Claude’s talked to him,” Patrice says, before Z even says anything. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Z says. “But I think you can do more than I or Claude can. He’s starting to get on everyone’s nerves, to be honest.”

“He’s a grown adult. He’ll figure it out on his own,” Patrice suggests, though he’s been trying to figure out what he can do ever since the beginning of the season.

Z shrugs. “We all need a little help sometimes. That's what team is for, no? Do your best.”

“Got it,” Patrice says, and sighs. Unfortunately he has a fairly good idea of what there is that can help. It’s just that it seems pretty clear that Marchy doesn’t want _him_ to do it.

 

Patrice corners Marchy again. He’s gotten good at that, at least.

Seeing him approach, Marchy narrows his eyes and stops short. “Are we doing this again?”

“Z sent me to talk to you this time,” Patrice says evenly. "So it's official."

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m going to keep it under control better. I got it.” Maybe Patrice would believe his words more if Marchy wasn’t one contracted line of tension, his fingers faintly twitchy.

“Can’t you please just let me help you?” Patrice says, hearing the naked plea in his own voice. “You said once it was like meditation. So what’s the big deal? I’ll be there with you. We can meditate together. We’ll be, oh, like Buddhist monks, meditating. Something like that.”

At least that makes Marchy laugh, even if it’s just in surprise. He shakes his head, looking down at his feet for a long stretching moment, finally considering it.

“Fine. You’re right. It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” he says at last. “You’re right.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a whoosh. “Just like meditation.”

“Okay. Great,” Patrice says, more relieved than he can say. “Do you want to come to my place?”

“Only if you clean the kitchen,” Marchy jokes. “Otherwise your place isn’t very relaxing, because dirty dishes stress me out.”

“Having seen _your_ kitchen, I know that’s not true,” Patrice says, laughing. “But sure. Yeah. It’ll be sparkling clean, I promise. You’ll go right under.”

Marchy blinks at him, apparently at a loss. “Right,” he says, after an awkwardly long second. “Yeah. Okay, let’s do this. Buddhist monks. No big deal. Tomorrow after practice?”

They work out the details, and maybe it’s just Patrice’s imagination, but he thinks that Marchy already looks a little more settled.

 

“So. How do we do this?”

Marchy blinks over at Patrice in confusion. “You’ve never done it?” he says, disbelief clear in his tone.

“Not really,” Patrice tells him, refusing to be embarrassed. “Once, as a teenager. I was the one doing the kneeling. But to be honest it didn’t do anything for me. It was just awkward.”

“Oh god. We really don’t need to be here—”

“I want to.” Patrice looks into Marchy’s eyes, trying to convince him of Patrice’s sincerity by the power of his stare alone.

A long fraught pause ensues, but finally Marchy sighs and says, “Fine. Man, I gotta do everything around here.” Patrice laughs, which seems to help Marchy relax a little. He even cracks a smirk before continuing, “So like. Normally it’s pretty much what it sounds like. Sit in a chair, put a pillow down, other person kneels, sits there and goes down or whatever.”

“Okay. Sure, that’s what I’ve seen on TV and stuff.” Patrice waits, because it definitely seems like there’s more.

“But that doesn’t really work for me. I don’t get just sitting there, that makes me want to move around, right?”

Patrice nods encouragingly. Marchy scratches the back of his neck. It’s rare for him to be this reluctant to _talk_ about something, so Patrice waits him out.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a whoosh. “Okay, so I need— I mean, it only works if I’m like, lying down. And the other person has to kind of like. Lie on top of me. Keep me in place so it takes me out of my own dumb head. But _really_ , it’s not sexual, I _swear_.”

Patrice forces his face to stay totally neutral. He’s really not shocked or weirded out — it doesn’t sound that weird to him, and it’s not like he’s afraid of touching Marchy. If Marchy doesn’t want it to be sexual, he won’t let it be sexual. He’s really good at self-control.

But at the same time, flashing in full-color, five-alarm clarity through his brain is an image of Boych, big and solid, covering Marchy completely, pushing him into a hotel mattress till Marchy’s boneless and relaxed, and— _God_. It’s completely unhelpful to feel a hot stab of envy; he forces that away along with the low burn of arousal.

“Okay. I’m fine with that,” he says. He definitely deserves an award for how even his voice stays. “So then. Lie down.”

“Here?” Marchy looks around. Patrice considers his overstuffed big leather sectional, and decides it’ll be comfortable enough. He's really rather not do it on the bed and make it harder for himself.

“Sure. Want me to put some TV on? It helps me to sleep, maybe it’ll help you?”

Marchy shrugs. “Feel free to do your thing, big guy.”

So Patrice turns the TV to the Food Network, cranks the volume down low. When he turns back, Marchy’s stretched out on the sofa, flat on his belly with his head pillowed in his arms. The line of his neck, the set of his shoulders — he looks, well, not relaxed, but so incredibly vulnerable— trusting.

Patrice swallows hard and clamps down on his self-control.

When he sets a knee on the couch next to Marchy, he can hear the intake of breath. “It’s just me,” Patrice says, low and hopefully soothing. Marchy doesn’t say anything, which is slightly unsettling in itself. But Patrice continues — sets his other knee down on Marchy’s other side, hands by his shoulders, and with a careful slow breath he lowers his thighs, hips, torso till he’s all the way down, lets his weight settle. 

He’s not sure what to do with his head — lay his cheek flat on the back of Marchy’s head? Would that be too intimate? Isn’t this already incredibly intimate? He keeps his head raised. “Is this okay?” he asks.

Marchy’s chest rises and falls under Patrice’s ribs. “Yeah,” Marchy says after a moment, muffled. He sounds a little doubtful.

“Am I too heavy?”

“No.”

“Anything else I should do?”

A pause. “No.”

So Patrice settles, shifts to get himself as comfortable as reasonably possible, and determinedly sets his mind to not thinking about the way Marchy feels under him (compact, strong— _not thinking_ about it—)

He succeeds so well that it takes a little while for him to notice that Marchy isn’t getting more relaxed. His breaths are deep but they seem too measured: one, two, three, in; one, two, three, out. It has to be forced, like he’s concentrating on it.

“Marchy?” he asks, soft but insistent. “Is it not working at all?”

“Who says it’s not working?” Marchy mutters.

“It doesn’t feel like it’s working,” Patrice says, mildly.

“Takes a while sometimes. Don’t hurry me. Jeez.” Patrice shuts up and lets him be.

Time passes. It’s easy to lose track of how much has gone by, but still: Marchy breathes, very evenly, and tension lines his body.

Patrice feels his own muscles tighten up involuntarily as the minutes tick past and it doesn’t help. He wants to be able to do this for Marchy so badly. There must be a reason why he can’t be what Marchy needs — why he’s never been able to do this for anyone. The dark knot sits and twists in the pit of his belly. “Marchy,” he says, as evenly as he can.

“Look, I’m trying here—”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I’m really sorry.” He props himself up on his arms, getting ready to get up and admit failure. “Maybe there's something wrong with me. I don’t know.”

“It’s not you,” Marchy mutters into his arms. “Really. I just, uh. This is fucking embarrassing, but like.” An excruciating, long, fraught pause. “I just. Have a massive boner right now, and it’s distracting.”

“Oh,” Patrice says. It’s maybe the hardest thing he’s done, aside from playing playoff hockey with a punctured lung, to prevent his own dick from hardening instantly in his pants. Distracted, he manages, “Uh. That’s okay.”

Now that the dam’s been broken, Marchy’s words trip over each other in rapid fire. “I swear to you it’s not like this normally. I don’t know, you smell kind of good? Not that Boych ever smelled bad, but Boych didn’t give me massive boners. Maybe like one time. But it went away. _Overall_ it was like really fucking platonic. You probably don’t believe a single word I’m saying right now, but it’s true. Sorry. You’re probably also really uncomfortable now. Feel free to get up and we can forget this whole sorry thing.”

Marchy shifts like he’s trying to get up, just as Patrice settles his weight back down, and it pushes Marchy flat into the cushion with a little surprised grunt.

“Marchy. Brad.”

“What?”

The knot has jumped into his throat, lifted up by the anticipatory power of sudden, desperate hope. He leans in close to Marchy’s ear, hears his own voice deepen, going slightly raspy. “Would you mind if I helped you with your massive boner?”

“I— oh.” A long pause. Patrice wishes he could see Marchy’s face, gauge his reaction.

Finally, sounding distracted, Marchy mumbles, “It sounds ridiculous when you say boner. It’s _you_.”

“I say boner. I even get them.” And without total conscious control, using the tiniest amount of pressure, he pushes his hips down to prove it.

“ _Oh_.”

“Let me—” Heart thudding, Patrice slides one hand gently under Brad’s shirt to reach warm, smooth skin, and at the same time lowers his head to breathe onto the back of Brad’s neck. “Can I—”

“Yeah,” Brad rasps, and inhales sharply when Patrice’s mouth meets his skin. Almost imperceptibly he arches, pressing back against Patrice in devastating fashion.

Patrice shifts weight to his knees, freeing his hands to start working Brad’s shirt off. Eventually this requires him to get up so Brad can get his arms out, and in the process Brad glances back and meets Patrice’s eyes.

His hair is completely mussed, a patchy pink flush lies high on his cheeks, and he’s biting his lip. “I didn’t know you were into— this,” he says.

“I didn’t know you were either,” Patrice protests. “You kept going on about how extremely non-sexual it was and all.”

“Learn something new every day,” Brad mutters. “It’s your fault anyway. Me and Boych, we’re buds, but _you_ —”

Patrice huffs a half-laugh. “Oh, just—” He turns Brad over, re-settles his weight, and leans down to kiss the words right out of his clever mouth.

Brad surges against him immediately, kissing back with an urgency that recalls to mind the existence of his massive boner. Patrice grinds down, just to verify that said boner is still there. It definitely is. They get caught up in dry humping like teenagers, till it becomes ridiculous and chafing and Patrice sits up so he can get Brad’s pants off.

“What do you want?” he asks, once everyone’s clothes are off and tossed carelessly on the floor.

“I’m not picky. What do _you_ want?”

Patrice has had one image stuck in his brain for some time — ever since Brad told him what he needs, to be honest. Patrice isn’t picky either, but he definitely knows what he would really like right now. “Can I get back on top and fuck your thighs?”

The flush spreads like wildfire from Brad’s cheekbones to his ears, down his neck. “It’s like you read my mind while I was lying there in the process of getting a massive boner,” he says. “So, um, yes. Yes you can.”

They move to the bedroom to save Patrice’s leather sofa from ruin. Brad stretches out right in the middle of the bed, naked and lying on his belly, and Patrice feels his mouth go a little bit dry at the sight.

He finds some massage oil shoved in the back of the nightstand drawer and lets it drip onto the backs of Brad’s thighs. Adds a generous palmful to his own erection, and then with a shuddering breath he straddles Brad’s prone body and slowly lowers himself down.

The shock of direct contact to warm skin all along his entire body makes Patrice almost gasp. He slides his slippery cock into the crease between Brad’s thighs, lets his head fall to rest on Brad’s, and just breathes in the smell of his hair for a couple of breaths. 

“Good?” he asks, when he’s able to.

“Yeah,” Brad mumbles. He fidgets under Patrice’s weight, as if testing— and then all of a sudden relaxes altogether, going entirely lax. “Yeah.”

Patrice nearly groans at the change in the feeling of the muscles under his own and humps a few times into the slick hot space of Brad’s thighs. It’s just so— easy, and _trusting,_ and Patrice _does_ moan, at that. He’s been entrusted with this.

He works a hand under Brad and finds his dick, encloses it in his oil-slick palm. Brad doesn’t tense up or even react, except for an indrawn breath followed by a long low sigh.

“Brad?” he murmurs, moving his wrist as much as he can while shallowly thrusting.

All he gets in return is a slurred, “God, that feels good.”

He presses into Brad at a slow, even pace, the warmth all around lulling him into a haze that’s like the good kind of buzzed, when everything goes slow and bright around the edges and an evening stretches into endless, comfortable night.

“You feel so good,” he hums against Brad’s neck, the loose friction on his dick an intoxicating tease. “You’re so relaxed right now.”

“Yeah,” Brad breathes, barely audible, and then he lets out a tiny muffled grunt and his dick is pulsing in Patrice’s hand. His body doesn’t tense up, even through that.

Afterward, he goes even more completely boneless, so that he can’t really keep his thighs tight enough to thrust into. Patrice shifts to his knees and jerks himself off, breathing in the smell at the nape of Brad’s neck, and before long he’s choking out a gasp and coming all over Brad’s ass. 

Brad emits a sound of protest when Patrice gets up to find something with which to clean them off. Once the smears of semen have been wiped off, he turns Brad over onto his back to check on him.

He’s not asleep; he’s pretty deep under, blinking heavy-lidded up at Patrice and smiling dopily. “Hey,” he says. “C’mere.”

Patrice lays carefully on top of him, arranging their legs and arms and resting his weight till Brad sighs happily and closes his eyes again. He kisses back easily when Patrice presses their mouths gently together, and accepts it just as easily when Patrice draws back. “Boych never did this for you, did he?” Patrice asks, only half-joking, with a little curl of possessiveness winding through his chest.

“Nope,” Brad says. “‘m glad it’s you.”

“Me too,” Patrice murmurs, and lets gravity pull him down deeper into contentment.

**Author's Note:**

> I am very occasionally [on tumblr](http://sphesphe.tumblr.com), come yell at me about bruins


End file.
